


Len’alas Lath’din

by ObsidianMichi



Series: Abelas and Lavellan at Skyhold [5]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Dalish Celebrations, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Post-Game
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-29
Updated: 2015-04-29
Packaged: 2018-03-26 07:34:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3842434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObsidianMichi/pseuds/ObsidianMichi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At the Arlathvhen, Eirwen Lavellan reflects on her relationship with Solas and how her life has changed. After she finds herself moodily drunk in the woods at Fen'harel's statue, Abelas offers her a supportive shoulder to lean on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Len’alas Lath’din

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I really don't own anything involved with Dragon Age and that should be obvious because I am often painfully non-canon.

_“Len’alas lath’din,” a voice hissed._

_An elbow knocked against Eirwen Lavellan’s back. Bodies pressed in around her. She stumbled forward. Knocking into those ahead her in a spray of dust. Condemning, irritated eyes glanced back to find her. Shaken heads, a few disparaging comments muttered in elvhen, before they moved on. When she turned, the offending individual had already vanished into the crowd._

Dirty child no one loves. _Tears pricked her lashes and she lifted her chin. An insult for a city elf, an insult for a child, a reminder that she was just another barefaced seth’lin. Worse than a flat ear, one who abandoned their heritage and ran away to the cities. To them, I am my mother._

_A faint smile brushed her lips and she stepped out from the throng headed down toward the rolling green fields outside of Halamshiral. There upon those fields, the Arlathvhen gathered. The woods dotted with aravels and the white bodies of halla. Great pendants were hoisted high upon the poles, each bearing the traditional symbols of the surviving clans. With a little pressure from Vivienne and Josephine, she’d convinced Celene to allow them the use of her lands and royal summer home. Not the same, perhaps, as ordering its return. We take what we have, she thought. For the first time since the fall of the Dales, her people were not wandering vagabonds trespassing on shemlen territory to enact their ancient rituals. Where scouts must watch the woods for fear of an angry lord’s army, of human swords and torches ready to drive them out._

_Today, Inquisition scouts watched over the encampment. Cullen’s soldiers patrolled the forests. The Empress herself had sent an envoy to discuss negotiations for Dalish rights upon her lands. Many Hahren from the surrounding city alienages were in attendance. A few merchant leaders even traveled freely with Clan Lavellan from Wycome, ready to offer aid and contacts to other Clans within the Free Marches._

_Arms locked around her neck as a small body swung about, tackling her into a hug._

Eirwen’s eyes swung back to the trees. A slight smile touched her lips, she leaned into the nearest trunk and let her temple scrape rough bark. Within the forest, shadows flickered between bush and branch. _A forest full of hiding places._ Eirwen couldn’t help but wonder if Solas lingered there, just out of sight. _More wishful thinking than anything else._ Memories, regret, and her wishing for another time and another place where her world and dreams might not have been so different. _He should be here._ How many times had she wished to share the Arlathvhen with him? _Beyond counting, really._ Her dream of using their shared knowledge to bring the Dalish out of the dark, all those hopes for building a better future for the elven people, a chance to really convince them that there was more to the past than the fragments they’d held onto. _A chance to stand together and say we can be better than we were before._ Before she’d learned the truth. When, even after the Anchor, Corypheus, and her encounter Mythal, she’d still been a selfish and naïve little child. _I thought…_ _he was more than a lover, more than a friend. A partner. I could put my trust in him._

She had not abandoned those hopes in the ruins of Haven. Not after she had closed the great rift in the sky, not after Solas spoke his parting words, not even after she turned back in her moment of triumphant celebration only to find him gone.

In time, her hopes became goals. With the help of the Inquisition, Josephine, Leliana, Cullen, Sera, Vivienne, and eventually even Abelas, especially Abelas, her goals grew into plans. Now, those plans, those years of work were finally coming to fruition.

And it had all happened without him.

_“I am so proud of you, da’len,” Keeper Istamathoriel murmured, warm, leathery hand clapping across Eirwen’s shoulder. “This has been the work of—”_

_“Months, Keeper,” Eirwen replied. Beyond them in the plane below, a hundred bonfires glowed, glimmered, and gleamed. Shadows passed around each, hands linked as voices rose against the dark. Songs sung in Elven. Abelas identified them as work songs and travel songs from Arlathan, songs of the slaves. Sera was somewhere down there, playing out some great joke upon the Dalish. “Years, even. Decades. Not all of it can be called mine.”_

_“Centuries,” Istamathoriel said. “Even if it is only for a few days, we stand in our ancestral home. What you have done here is a marvel.”_

More important than all my others, I suppose. _With a sigh, she took the offering of summer wine and lifted it to her lips. Sometimes, it felt as if all she did only mattered when it directly benefited the Dalish_. _“I am proud, Keeper.”_

_The older elf’s head turned, gray eyes finding her. Appraised her with clear irises. A small smile curved the corner of her mouth. “Yes, but not happy.”_

_Crossing her arms, Eirwen took another sip of wine. When she stopped, when she thought of it, and regarded her own feelings, then the answer was clear._ The Keeper is right. _She swallowed. “Does it matter?”_

_“The Arlathvhen is an occasion is to be filled with joy, when we meet together and share our knowledge. You have given us much to consider in your travels and,” she paused, one hand stretched out and traced her fingertips down Eirwen’s bare cheek, “your companion has also shown us much. Despite your appearance, da’len, you’ve not abandoned your heritage or the Clans as some claim.” Her lips curled into a wider smile and she leaned closer. “Take it from an old woman, the time to celebrate your triumphs rarely come. Enjoy this while you can.”_

_Eirwen sighed._ _“I see your wisdom, Keeper.” The years grew long like shadows around a fire, lengthening as it went out. Time went on. She could not spend life waiting. “We must live in neither the past nor the future, but focus on the present. Focus on what is, not what was.”_

_“No,” Istimaethoriel murmured. “Not on pain. Remember your love for what it was, acknowledge what it wasn’t.” Leathery fingers moved off her cheek and gently pushed back Eirwen’s bangs. She glanced sideways, lower lip trembling. “Only you can say when the time has come to move forward, but know we all must in time and you may find letting go to not be such a terrible fate.”_

_“I loved him,” she said. “I_ love _him. Sometimes, I think I always will.”_

_“He was your first,” Istimaethoriel replied. “Such men and women will always hold a special place in our hearts.”_

_Her eyes swung back to the celebration and she took another sip of wine. “Even if they broke it so horribly?”_

_“Because of it, I believe.” Istimaethoriel laughed. “Find joy in the arms of those who love you, da’len. You may discover you are not so alone.”_

Eirwen studied the bottle in her hand, eyes wandering up and down the glass curve from thin tapered neck to wide ass. Biting her lip, she swallowed. Then, shook her head. No matter what the Keeper said, she still felt alone.

_We’ll never have this day._

Tilting the bottle back, she took a long swig. A giggle slipped through her lips and she coughed.

“Funny,” she swallowed. “I am getting what I… what we need.” Her words echoed out into the empty woods, heart hammering in her chest. Eager superstition left her wanting. Fuzzy swirl of alcohol sent her thoughts drifting in a hopeful direction. Maybe, maybe he was here, her more emotional thoughts said. Maybe, he was watching. Even if he didn’t come out, maybe he was there.

 _Yes, I’m sure he slipped past a few hundred Inquisition soldiers and Dalish scouts, the Chargers, and most of the couples frolicking in the woods tonight, just to listen to me. Because he loves me so much, he just can’t stay, because he’s that kind of a romantic._ With a shake of her head, Eirwen swallowed another mouthful of wine. _Don’t fool yourself, Eirwen. If he loved you, he wouldn’t have left._ Or, at the very least, provided a better explanation. _Instead of skulking off into the sunset, like some kind of thief, like a coward._ Tonight, she didn’t need the enjoyment. _Just the numbness which comes with it._

Today, she’d won.

“So,” Eirwen whispered to the tree, “why does victory feel so empty?”

Stumbling forward, she pushed her way through the forest. Feet cracking on branches, leaving long trails in the blades of grass. No careful quiet steps carried her, just angry, heavy stomps. Shemlen steps. She’d transformed into Varric as he went tromping through a glade with city bred boots, alerting every forest creature within a five mile radius to her presence.

Finally, she pushed into a small glen. Unremarkable except for a tall statue. A wolf, lying on its side, stone eyes regally surveying the woods with fearsome intent.

“Fen’harel.”

Eyes dropped to the bottle in her hand. Wine sloshed against the glass sides. Eirwen gripped the thin, fragile neck. Her eyes lifted back to the wolf statue. Impassive stone eyes stared down. Tears pricked her lashes. “What are you looking at, huh?” she whispered. She stepped up to the monument. “You got somethin’ to say? I mean, you see everything don’t you? Know it all!”

The wolf’s eyes didn’t move.

Wiping her mouth, she studied the grass. Tears splashed her knuckles. In the distance, the drums beat and lutes played. The celebrations continued. _And_ _I’m no longer welcome._ “You take everything,” Eirwen said. Eyes squeezed shut, her arm wrapped around her waist. She bit her knuckle. “You steal everything. Just like in the stories.” Sucking in a deep breath, she let out a sharp sob. “Well,” her eyes returned to the wolf. “Was it worth it?”

Imposing in the dark, backlit by the moon’s silver light, the statue stayed still.

“Tell me!” Eirwen shouted. Her hand clenched into a fist. Nails bit into her palm, needle sharp, digging in until blood flowed free.

Silence echoed through the glade. Overhead, silver stars glittered down through trailing wisps of clouds. Wind ruffled overhanging branches. Leaves heaved a gentle sigh. The statue remained. Cold gray eyes locked somewhere over her head. Lifeless.

“I hate you!”

She hurled the bottle.

It struck the statue dead on, glass fracturing against a carved ruff. Wine raced down rivulets of fur. Chest stained red. Glass shards struck the grass like rain. The wolf’s expression failed to change.

“So pathetic,” Eirwen whispered. “Me.” Wine pooled around the wolf’s paws and, under the moon’s light, turned black. “See.” Wiping her nose, she stared at her hand. “Lost my alcohol.” Tears slipped down her cheeks, lower lip jutting into a pout. Eirwen sniffed. “Don’t know how I’ll get drunk now.” She giggled. “Such a mess.” One hand pushed up into her hair, scraping her forehead. “No wonder you left.”

Knees hit dirt. Flopping back, she spread out on the grass. Springy blades cushioned her head, orange bangs falling back across a bare forehead. She closed her eyes. Cool wind stroked damp cheeks. Dew soaked her fingertips, tingling on open cuts.

“Why don’t you want me, Solas?” she asked.

“Because,” a warm voice rumbled from overhead, “he is a fool.”

A bottle settled beside her head with a soft _thunk_. A slight smile twitched on her lips. “Abelas.” Eirwen opened her eyes. “You’re so quiet.”

“A millennia of practice.” Golden gaze stared at her from beneath a massive hood. He crouched over her, hands resting on his knees. Long shadow blotted out the moonlight. His lips pressed in a thin line. Curving tendrils of Mythal’s vallaslin shone against pale skin. “When you did not return,” he said. “I grew concerned.”

“Well,” she smiled ruefully. “As you can see, there’s absolutely no need.”

“Yes,” he replied. His dry voice echoed in her ears. Deep and warm, it rolled on forever. “Clearly, you have this well in hand.” One finger dropped, cold metal sliding up her cheek to collect a single tear. “As always, these feelings are yours alone to do with as you wish.” His hand lifted away, golden eyes shifted studiously to his gauntlet. “However, Lethallan, allow me to say that any who would bring tears to these eyes is most undeserving.”

With a laugh, Eirwen brushed her fingertips up his cheek. “You always say exactly the right thing,” she said. “How do you do that?”

A faint smile touched his lips. “You may call it a gift.” His head tilted. “One gained from a lifetime of service.”

“Right.” She blinked. “Then,” she added. “You don’t have to. I mean, if you’d rather be somewhere else…” _With someone else,_ Eirwen thought. “With me, you shouldn’t think you’re required to stay.”

“There is nowhere I would rather be.”

She smiled.

“May I sit?” he asked. After a momentary pause, he added, “or if I have overstepped—”

“No!” Eirwen jerked upright. Hard. Their foreheads knocked. “Oh!” she yelped. Pain struck out from behind her eyes, sharp and blinding. “Oh…” She dropped back to the grass, one hand scrubbing her brow. “Ouch.”

Abelas chuckled. “For once, I find Varric Tethras and I are in agreement.” Leaning forward, his gauntlet descended and she felt cool metal brush over her skin. “This night is not yours.”

“I’ve definitely had better,” Eirwen muttered.

“Allow me.” His second hand cradled her head. Gentle fingers probing along her hairline as he searched for signs of injury.

Her eyes fluttered. “Surprisingly gentle for a man in heavy armor,” she mumbled. “I guess that’s another gift too.” The corners of her lips twitched. “Or an advantage of form fitting metal?”

“I believe you will survive.”

“I hope so!” Eirwen grinned. “I’ve been through worse!”

Cool fingers left her as Abelas sank back, settling into the grass. His legs stretched forward. Caging her from both sides, they formed a protective barrier. She sat up, more slowly this time, and scooted back until hers rested against his chest. Her head nestled on his shoulder, finding the sweet spot between the clasp of his overcoat and the sharp cut of his pauldron. A small smile tucking into the corners of her mouth. His chin settled in her hair.

“Why doesn’t he want me?” Eirwen whispered. Warm, strong arms closed around her and Abelas crushed her to his breastplate. Resting her forehead against his neck, she sniffed.

“Because he is a fool,” Abelas repeated. His voice rumbled in her ears, firm and sure.

She snuggled a little closer. Tears leaked down her cheeks in thick, hot blobs. He was big, and tall, and broad. _So warm, so Abelas._ “He said it would all make sense.” The bronze clasp of his overcoat cut into her chin. His tall, metal collar cool on her skin. “It still doesn’t make _any_ sense, Abelas.” A burp escaped her. “Even though I know now. Maybe, maybe I’m just,” she hiccupped, “ _stupid_. I mean, Creators, I must be.”

A chuckle shook her. His gauntlet clinked, cold metallic fingers rested on her head.

“Seems silly to think of it now,” she murmured.

“You shall endure,” Abelas said. “As you have done.” Gently, he brushed away her bangs. With a free hand, he collected the bottle from the grass. Lifting it to his lips, he sipped.

Eirwen sighed. “Enduring isn’t living.”

He passed her the bottle.

She drank. “Oh,” she shuddered. “That’s not Dalish.” It burned on the tongue. Oily, it tasted acidic when it slid down her throat. “What is it?”

“Varric’s.”

A pop jumped in her stomach and Eirwen burped. Covering her mouth, she swallowed and then took another sip. Shivers passed up her spine. Her tongue burned. “Like flames in my mouth.” And skated the back of her teeth. “Suddenly,” she croaked. “I understand why his chest has so much hair.”

Laughter followed. “In the months following Arlathan’s fall, when we closed the sanctum’s gates, we discovered that though we had many supplies to ensure our survival but some of the finer qualities were taken by the last of Mythal’s fleeing priests and we were forced to devise our own solution.” He lifted the bottle. “After such an experience, this,” he held the bottle to his lips, “is not so terrible.”

“No, Abelas,” Eirwen whispered. “I really think I just grew some.” She glanced at him. “See.” Up she sat, and stuck out her tongue. “Awn mah tungue.”

He chuckled. Fingers settled on her jaw and tilted her chin, pulling her a little closer. “Mmm,” he murmured. “It is growing rather well. In fact, I believe it may be necessary to locate a brush from the halla pens.”

“Abelas!”

“I am sure I will find someone willing to oblige.” He put the bottle to her lips. “For your hair collection, Lethallan.”

Eirwen sighed. She tucked up her knees, tucking a little closer to his chest. Over the months, she’d grown accustomed to his armor. The pointy bits and uncomfortable jabbing metal barely registered. Wrapping an arm around his neck, she studied him. Golden irises glimmered out from beneath hooded eyes and a heavy brow. A slight tilt to his lips failed to allay any sense of sternly withheld sorrow brought by his sharp cheeks, wide chin, and square jaw. His face was fuller, sharper, and harder. Yet, within those lines, she’d learned to locate softness and vulnerability. His gentle eyes conveyed warmth and friendship, trust. Even amongst those he despised, Abelas was startlingly approachable.

Gently, she stroked his cheek. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Perhaps,” Abelas said. His golden eyes flicked over hers. “In time, I may wish to.”

In Eirwen’s chest, her heart skipped. “I know we met, maybe, five months ago,” she began, “and not under the best circumstances, but I do feel like I’ve known you…” trailing off, Eirwen ducked her head and rested burning cheeks on cool metal. “You’ve probably become one of my best friends within the Inquisition and I…” Glancing up at him, she bit her lip. “I don’t appreciate you enough.”

He leaned down, until they were nearly nose to nose, and rested his forehead on her brow. “That is untrue.”

Closing her eyes, she smiled faintly. His skin burned on her brow, warm and comforting. “It is,” she murmured. “I… when we talk, it’s always about me.”

Abelas chuckled. “I do not elaborate because there is little to say.” His arm circled her shoulders. “Even were I to do so, the past will not return.”

“Not to either of us,” Eirwen agreed. With a sigh, she leaned into him. “I think today just reminded me of how much I’ve changed.” Her chin tilted up, their noses brushed. Her lashes fluttered, eyes opening. She lifted her gaze and found his. “How I’m going to keep on changing as the years pass. Whatever comes, whether he returns or doesn’t, I won’t be the same woman.” She tilted her head. “Whatever I feel, it won’t… it’s not the same.”

“No,” he said. The word slipped from his lips slowly, thoughtfully.

“Mythal and Fen’harel,” Eirwen said. “They still left us behind.” Slowly, she stroked his cheek. “Abelas, why don’t you feel abandoned?”

“It was never my place to question the will of Mythal,” he replied. “I understood my duty, I endured.” “Even when all hope seemed lost, faith sustained me. And as the world grew more and more foreign, it became all there was. I spent my years in a dreamless slumber, awakening when called to defend the Vir’Abelasan from those invaders seeking to ransack its treasures. Each time I saw our great sanctum’s decay, until, at last, sleep became preferable to the world that was.”

Eirwen brushed her lips over his mouth in a light, airy kiss. His arm tightened around her shoulders and pulled her closer. Cold metal swept up her skin. “There is a place for you in this one, Abelas.”

“So I have come to understand,” he murmured.

She smiled.

“I,” Abelas continued, “was not Mythal’s lover. Thus,” a small smile curved his lips, “I cannot be abandoned in the same manner.”

Laughing, Eirwen leaned back. One hand swiped the bottle off the grass and she took another long gulp. With a cough, she added, “Varric writes a serial about us and misses the strangest story of all.” Her lips pursed and her eyes dropped. “Still, hard to think of Solas as Fen’harel.”

Fingertips touched her chin, lifted her gaze to meet his gentle, golden irises. “Tell me of him,” Abelas said.

“It’s hard to think of what to say,” she whispered. “He was, well…” Eirwen swallowed. “Different from any elf I’d ever met before. I don’t suppose I knew what to think of him. On the one hand, he was funny, warm, deeply caring when he wanted to be. On the other, he could be cold, harsh, distant, judgmental, always jumping to the worst possible conclusion. A guarded man, whom life spent too much time slapping around.

“He was forward then not, reserved and then not. A constant contradiction,” she said. “Keeper would’ve called him double-sided, but I think he just held himself back.” Slowly, she propped her right hand on a lifted knee. “He came expecting condemnation from every corner. Expected to stand on the outside, alone. When he wasn’t, well, one can’t deny themselves forever, even the strongest resolve cracks and the floodwaters burst forth.” A small smile played on her lips. “He’d lost so much, was afraid of losing so much more, and yet he couldn’t deny his pride. He might have hid his digs behind a pleasant smile, but he enjoyed taking cracks at those he saw as ignorant.” Her smile widened. “Everyone except him, of course.

“Sometimes,” Eirwen murmured. She rested her head securely under Abelas’ chin. Her eyes found the wolf’s steely grays, chiseled and unmoving in the stone. “I think Solas was so afraid of losing me that he forgot to _believe_.” Warm breath mussed her hair in a comforting pulse. “So terrified I’d die, he never trusted me to return home alive. Never trusted me with the truth. Clutched his guilt so tight, he couldn’t imagine... anyway…” Behind the wolf, the moon dropped lower in the sky. “I can be special, unique, a marvel, important, _real_ ,” she sighed, “whatever that means, but, in the end, what is love without trust?”

Abelas’ hand rested on her shoulder. “Does he still possess yours?”

“No,” Eirwen sighed. “I don’t think so. It broke.” She slumped into him. “And,” she exhaled another long, slow, breath. “I don’t know how to fix it. Somewhere between letting him remove my vallaslin and breaking up after told me I was beautiful, abandoning me in the ruins of Haven after telling me what we had was real, I just…” Eyelids squeezed shut and she embraced the darkness. The warm scent of Abelas lingered in her nostrils, the sour taste of Varric’s alcohol burned on her tongue. “No.”

“I just want someone who will choose me,” she continued. “Pick me before every other cause.” She smiled, faint smile while she watched silver moonlight glisten on the gathering dew. “Come find me when I get lost.” Her eyes lifted to the stars. “Tear this world apart looking for me. Wouldn’t rest for a second until they found me. Believe in me. Fight for me.” She swallowed. “Until we charted our lives by the same star, until we went on the same day, within the same hour, at the same moment, and traveled together into uthenera, the Void, and beyond.” Her head dropped and she grinned. “So, when they remember me, they don’t just remember the Inquisitor. They’ll remember a woman and a man, and their many adventures. How, in the midst of all that misery and suffering, they each made the other’s days just a little more bearable. And when Varric finally writes his last serial, he’ll finish it with ‘And, kid, you just know they’re still together, somewhere out there. Joined at the hip, as only those two assholes could be’. That kind of love.” Abelas arm curved around her stomach and he took the bottle from her grasp. “Maybe it’s selfish. Creators know, I can’t even promise the same.” Her hand drifted down, lay across his gauntlet. Then, Eirwen laughed. “It’s probably too much to ask of anybody.”

“It is not,” Abelas replied.

Eirwen paused. Her arms wrapped about her shoulders, cool air on exposed skin sent shivers racing up her spine. Tears wet her lashes. And she felt like a child again, watching her mother pack up the remains of her belongings into a small sack. A callused hand pushing her back when she tried to follow. _Mana, ma da’lath. Be silent for Mamae._

“If he loved me,” she said in a very small voice. “He’d fight for me.”

A contemplative silence filled the glade. Abelas’ arm tightened around her waist. Plates clinking against an underlay of chainmail as he shifted. The bottle rose and she heard him take a sip. He remained silent, but his nose buried in her hair and he loosed a very heavy sigh.

Fingers trailed Abelas’ cheek, brushing his ear and the inside of his hood. Throat thickening, she pressed her lips together. Felt them tremble. “Wouldn’t he?”

“As any love struck fool might.”

Rolling over in his lap, Eriwen sat up. Her arms wrapped about his neck and she pressed a warm kiss to his forehead. Her smile brushed his skin and she whispered, “I’m glad you joined us.” She squeezed tighter. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“I am as well,” he said. “And it is for this reason, Lethallan.” A small, warm smile cut across his mouth. “I am not so angry.” His gauntleted fingers smoothed back her hair. “I find myself grateful to Mythal, to the greed of Corypheus, your enemy. Even to the advice Fen’harel once offered at the edge of the Vir’Abelasan.”

“Who knows,” Eirwen said, lips quirking into a lopsided smirk. “Maybe he regrets that now.”

Abelas chuckled. “Perhaps.”

“Well,” she murmured. “Regardless.” Her eyes dropped to his mouth, to the slight warm smile. She leaned in. “I don’t.” And kissed him.

Underneath the moon bright sky, Eirwen’s lips clung to Abelas’. Her arms wrapped around his neck, she pulled herself tighter into his lap. As she did, she felt a weight lifting from her chest. His hand pushed into her hair, arm securing her waist. A tentative gentle kiss returned against her mouth. Nothing like her second kiss with Solas in the Fade. This was slow, methodical, and thoughtful, without rush, without a need to hurry, without desperation. Instead, it grew into a quiet exploration as if they had not just one hour, or one night but all of time to discover one another. And while the loneliness and misery of the past months did not evaporate, his kiss left her wondering. Filled her with a spark of hope.

Maybe, just maybe, there was a world for her, one beyond duty and responsibility, beyond her friendships, beyond waiting for a love that might never return, worth living in after all.

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this sitting on my desktop unfinished (along with a few other fics) that I figured I should probably get around to finishing. It's not as long as I originally thought it would be, but that's mostly because I'd already written the most important part. And yes, some may be a little off as I'm rusty. Still, I hope those Abelas/Lavellan fans out there enjoyed this. It's a little angsty (angst! angst! angst!), but I wanted to deal with Eirwen's feels on the breakup. Probably not my best work, but I do enjoy the fuzzy feels.


End file.
